


Let's call this one Y

by filenotch



Series: Author's favorites [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Infidelity, Light BDSM, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:34:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22454245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/filenotch/pseuds/filenotch
Summary: I know where this happens, away from home, at a professional conference in her field, in a city where neither of us live. We've arranged to meet a day early, at a hotel across town from her meeting, and I don't even wonder what story she told her husband. I have told my partner a careful non-lie and used the credit card that bills to my PO Box to book a flight that arrived yesterday.A fantasy. Originally written for an LJ non-fanfic writing group called Correctly Viewed--Peer reviewed porn.
Series: Author's favorites [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1841476
Kudos: 3





	Let's call this one Y

Let's call this one Y.

Until I typed the letter just now, imagining what I would do to her, I didn't realize how appropriate it was. I want her in an inverted Y with her hands bound over her head, legs spread for me, a red glow to the insides of her thighs where I've switched her with the flogger, hard enough to sting, not hard enough to bruise, every mark gone before she returns to the husband who can't give her this.

I will write as if it's happening. I want what she wants. I normally want to sub in a kink scene, but certain people make me switch, and I want to take this intelligent woman with the beautiful mind and grab her hair, holding her head so that I can feel her breath on my dick, and _not_ let her suck.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I know where this happens, away from home, at a professional conference in her field, in a city where neither of us live. We've arranged to meet a day early, at a hotel across town from her meeting, and I don't even wonder what story she told her husband. I have told my partner a careful non-lie and used the credit card that bills to my PO Box to book a flight that arrived yesterday. I have spent the morning modifying the hotel furniture, arranging ropes and straps hidden now under a crisply made bed.

I sit in the room's wing chair, waiting. The upholstery is surprisingly not bad, and I can think of things I'd like to do to her in this chair. I'm wearing a suit, charcoal gray, with a crisp white shirt and a tie patterned on the Unicorn Tapestries. I come to my lady's corral, give her what she needs, and then leave her unbreached--no virgin she, but her husband will not be cuckolded by any part of me, nor will I betray my husband by the breaching of another body with mine. I have a white handkerchief in my pocket, dark socks, and black shoes polished to a military gloss. I have a bourbon beside me, but I drink only enough to give my breath the smell of expensive alcohol.

I am a connoisseur, and I want her to feel as if I will savor her just as much.

I have left the security bar flipped so that the door will not close, and when it moves I pick up the bourbon, posing, relaxed and dominating. We have never seen each other before, but I would have recognized her in a crowd, I think. She looks like the scientist she is, and her eyes cannot hide the intelligence I see behind... Yes, that's fear. She closes the door behind her, and puts the security bar to its intended use.

"Look at me," I say. She does, and I can tell she wants to drop her eyes. She shifts the shoulder strap from her bag, and I look at her. She is sensibly dressed, presentable as if she made an effort to look like she made no effort for me. I hold her gaze for a moment. "I know what you said in your email, but I have to hear it," I say. "I sent you a contract saying that you will submit to whatever I ask, but I will not leave marks that last more than three days, and none where they will be visible in normal clothing. Do you agree?"

Her voice breaks, and she has to say it twice, but her answer is, "Yes."

"Put your bag down. Do what you need to do in the bathroom, and come back here."

I think about how we got here. We have only glancingly discussed this, and that two years ago, and we talk--write--mostly of other things. When she mentioned she would be here, I made the offer, telling her when, where, and what, asking only for a yes or a no. Her agreement came three days later, and it surprised me.

When she comes out I am standing, my back to her, looking out the window and watching her reflection overlying the lights of the unfamiliar city below. She let her hair down, and it fans across her shoulders. I turn and look at her, then circle her. She's my height, and she turns her head to follow me, and she's probably wondering if I'm judging her. I am, but not the way she thinks. I lean in behind her, and speak softly. "You have no children, but you dress like a soccer mom. It's not just protective coloration as much as it's one less thing to have to think about. You don't care whether _who_ you are comes through. This one facet is enough for the rest of the world to see."

I lean in close enough to feel her heat, but I don't touch her, not yet. "It's not enough for me. Show me." She can feel my breath, I'm sure of it, feel how close I am. I don't move. I stand and breathe her in, shampoo and a sweet nervous edge, and I wait.

Finally she says, "How? What do you want?"

"Your safe word." Her hair moves under my lips as I speak.

"Relashio," she says, a Harry Potter spell word for unbinding, and I know she's worked it all out in her head. She's wrong.

I step back, leaving her facing the window. "Last chance. I'm an imaginary person, an internet persona. You have no idea what I might do to you." She starts to turn. "No. Eyes front." I fold my arms over my chest. She can see me reflected in the widow if she wants, although my suit blends with the black night outside, and the collar, cuffs and handkerchief stand out. "You turn, you go. We're done."

She nods. "I want to stay. I trust you."

I want to say, _Stupid bitch_ , but it's too soon for that, and she isn't stupid. Instead I tell her to take off the jacket and shirt. I want to see what she's chosen for a bra.

I watch her undress from the back, and then walk around to look. Her breasts are medium sized, and her bra is pretty. Her nipples are barely covered by the lace, but it's constructed well enough that they wouldn't come out on their own. She's chosen a beige a few shades darker than her winter-pale skin. She doesn't know what to do with her eyes or hands. For a moment, neither do I.

I want to take those breasts, have them fill my palms and my mouth, but instead I open the drawer of the hotel desk and take out a flogger with long strands of soft suede. I move quickly, carefully, and in two quick moves hit her ribs, under each breast. She cries out more in surprise than pain. It's all I can do not to drop the whip, bury my face between her breasts and grab her ass, but that isn't what she needs. I trail the soft leather where I want my tongue to be, over the curves, between them, disappearing in her cleavage.

"Take off your trousers." She does as I ask, and her panties match her bra with beige lace stretching across the slight round of her stomach. She is not thin, not fat, and she's waxed or shaved for me, because no hair escapes the lace between her thighs. I hope she left something, because I want to see a woman.

With no warning I hit the backs of her thighs with the flogger. Her knees go weak, and I then push my knee behind hers while I grab under one arm to slow her drop the floor. There may be slight rug burn, but it should fade before she goes home. I move her hands so that she knows to clasp them behind her back, and step to stand in front of her. Her head is even with my groin, and I step close. I watch her face, knowing she things I'm going to pull out my dick and make her suck it.

I touch her for the first time, my hand in her hair, petting, until she leans her head against my hip. I am hard for her. I would like nothing more than to do the predictable thing, but instead I pet her until she relaxes.

All of what happens is not mine to tell, but I tie her, and I hurt her as artfully as I can. I have her at last as I imagined, hands bound over her head, legs spread, She is face down, and her hips rise as the flogger lands. I have moved from unexpected to rhythmic, and her ass is beautifully red, as is a stripe down her spine. When I stop, she whines, but I have only paused.

Here, at the end, her hands are bound together over her head, her arms tied to the rope I fixed across the head of the bed, hidden by the pillows until I made her discover it. I untie her feet. "On your back," I say, as I loosen the ropes on her arms, just enough to let her move. As she turns over, I wish the knots did justice to her beauty, but I have only utilitarian skills. Her eyes are closed, and her cheeks are wet. I brush the hair from her face before I move to retie her feet.

"Open your eyes." I have checked the mirror, and I know what she will see. I took off the coat of my suit an hour ago, loosened my tie, and rolled up my shirt sleeves. My own face is flushed, but until now I had lost my arousal. I had been working. I try to force myself to think that way again, but faced with her tears, with the incredibly open expression on her face, I'm having a hard time controlling the gallant reflex. "Watch me," I say, and I take the flogger to her thighs, down one leg, then walking around the hotel bed to reach the other. I let the flogger stray to her mons, pulling my swing slightly and trusting the nest of black and gray curls to protect her.

This is how I dreamed of Y, and when I can I look at her face, she is crying again, eyes closed, biting at her lower lip, and I stop. I have not kissed her. I want to. I have not sucked a nipple into my mouth. I want to. And I do not. I am not her lover; I am her agent, her unicorn, her mythical creature.

I sit next to her and rest my palm on her mons. This is only the second time I've touched her in a way that wasn't to bind her or tell her what to do. I let my index finger slide between the folds, and she is so wet I can barely feel when to stop. Her hips grind up, but I move with her, not letting myself dip all the way in. I move my hand to my mouth, tasting her, and now she watches me. I slip down to wet my middle finger, and offer it to her, far enough from her lips that she can only lick it, should she want to, but not suck, and she does. She is forbidden to speak, and cannot beg for more, but she wants to. I can see it.

I get up and find the only things I brought other than the flogger. I sit back on the bed and hold them up for her to see, and her eyes widen at the sight of nipple clamps. I have left her breasts alone up to now, not giving them the attention of a lover. I steal it now, feeling their curve and weight as I put on the clamps. I tighten them until she hisses. Then I watch her, panting and trying vainly to pull her legs together, to give herself some sensation. I take the last thing I brought, a single condom, and her eyes open again when she hears the tear of foil. I do not take it out of its package yet, and I certainly don't roll it down my dick, as much as I want to. I turn, and with my back to her, I put the condom on the handle of the flogger, holding it low, so she can't know for sure.

I lean over her, and give in again, using one hand to part her curls before I dip in to lick, to taste her, to do what I can to bring her off. I set the flogger on the bed, and work her with my mouth until she seems close, and only then do I pick it up and work it into her. She obeys the command not to speak, but she cannot remain silent. I fuck her with the handle of the flogger, and tongue her clit until she comes, legs straining against the ropes, hips curling off the mattress, driving herself up toward my mouth.

I stop, not knowing what she is like. Multiple? Or one and done? I leave the flogger inside her, flaying the ends over her thighs, before I reach up to loosen one of the nipple clamps. She cries out with the pain of release and her hips move again with something internal that forces out the flogger. She makes a sound of need, so I slide it back into her and lean back down to lick her again. When I think she is close, I reach up for the other clamp, releasing it as soon as her orgasm starts.

Her voice is staccato and loud. There is no way to mistake the noise for anything but sex, and I ride her through it until I hear a whine that says, _Too much_. I take the flogger out of her, and set it aside, and finally let myself stroke her skin. I keep it professional, gentling and soothing as I would a horse, not intimate or possessive as I would like. When her breathing is normal I untie her. "Go take a shower," I say, rolling my sleeves back down, standing near the window.

When I hear the bathroom door shut, I pick up the flogger, licking the taste of her from the latex, imagining sucking the cock that gets to fuck her, her lucky bastard husband. I can't stand it any more, and I grab a handful of tissues and lay myself where she was, open my trousers, and jack myself, hard and fast, her taste on my lips and the last cry still in my ears. I come in moments, but it is mere relief and I cannot let myself relax. There is too much to do. I hesitate over throwing the tissues in the trash, and wrap the wad in a fresh one, stuffing it in my pocket.

I untie the ropes, stuff them and the nipple clamps into my bag. I remake the bed imperfectly, but there is no time for details. I grab my suit coat, make sure the room keys are on the television, and I can hear her turn off the water in the shower as I close the door behind me. Only in the elevator do I remember that I left the flogger behind.


End file.
